Monday, June 29, 2015

We thought it was just the post-winter blues.
Gain a little (lots) of weight, age, fighting to get back to a daily activity
level appropriate, all that. I’m talking about The Beagle, the beloved fourth
member of our little family. I just had this feeling – call it mother’s
instinct – something just wasn’t right for the longest time. Turns out I was right. Something is
wrong.

The best part of The Beagle is his heart. And
now, it’s also his worst part.

We brought him to the vet about a month ago.
They diagnosed him with pancreatitis and gave him new food and a few drugs. A
week later, he was worse. The Dad and I spent a lot of time lying on our
bellies that week, up in our dog’s grill, trying to coax him to do things. Eat.
Swallow pills. Wag his tail. Breathe. Don’t
you go dying on us!

The things you do for your kids. Even if
they’re not of our species.

He has a bad ticker. Technically, it’s a
tumor around his heart, that’s essentially causing him to be in congestive
heart failure. We’re sort of stuck in limbo at this point, three+ weeks post
operation that was literally a life-saving procedure. We were sent home with
our boy with the instructions no one ever wants in their pocket; wait for the
decline, say your goodbyes, and bring him back.

And because of how I’m wired, I always look
for the positive in most scenarios. It’s one of my superhero powers. So in that
vein, I started to see some lessons to be gained from the terminally ill:

1. Dogs Smell Fear

Regarding instincts, dogs have amazing radar
when something isn’t right. The Beagle has always slept on my side of the bed
on the floor – right next to his Mama for nine straight years. A month before
he got sick, he abruptly switched to The Dad’s side. Strange, we thought. Then
when he slept on Kid Rock’s floor for the first time in either of their lives
the night he had surgery, we got it. Dogs can sense anxiety, and he was just
making the rounds to ensure his humans were all okay.

2. Humor is Always the Best Medicine

There are jokes and there are inappropriate
jokes and we’ve been saying them all recently. The whole, he’s kicking hospice’s ass, and be nice to him, he’s dying, keeps us smirking a little, and the
mood, light. We’re trying to be normal for our daughter’s sake, but I think a
lot of it is going toward our sake, too.

3. Shoot it Straight

Having Kid Rock hug her “brother” goodbye
before he went in because we didn’t know the outcome was awful. Awful. But so
would’ve living with knowing we kept her from saying that goodbye in case he
never came home. Being honest with her was the best policy, even if it gutted
us a little. Face the music. That’s not the worst part. The worst part is
waiting to have the conversation in the first place.

4. Live Like You’re Dying

Because we are. This includes astronomical
grocery bills because your dog now requires people food for his last meal(s),
and getting over your issue with pet hair on your furniture. Think of two
adults, one kid, and an overweight, geriatric dog in one queen bed on a
Saturday night. So much snoring and kicking … and so many memories.

5. Never Give Up

As The Beagle was trying to shake his
post-winter blues, I began training for my first half-marathon. Naturally, I
wanted to help him overcome the holiday weight and sluggishness so I began my
training with him. Poor little guy! Running in harsh the Midwestern climate
while in cardiac distress? The humanity! I had no idea he was sick. His
eagerness never wavered. I got my shoes; he got his leash. There were a few
runs I had to call home for a doggy pickup after a few miles, but damnit if he
wasn’t begging by the front door the next time I went out. American author
Charles Bukowski said, “My dear, find what you love, and let it kill you.” For
The Beagle, it’s running full speed via leash, tethered to his people.

6. It’s Never Just About a Dog

It was a Friday when The Dad called me from
the vet with the diagnosis. He was crying, I was crying. I was at work, a safe
place I’ve only been part of for six months. When my coworkers saw me crying my
face off, they moved right in to comfort me. I kept repeating, it’s only my dog, it’s only my dog by way of explaining it wasn’t
something BAD. They all assured me of course it’s bad. It’s your dog, your
love, your life. It doesn’t matter how big or little it is to you or anyone
else, if it matters, it matters. Period.

7. Hope Floats

We have no idea what to expect. We only know
it will get a helluva lot worse before it gets better. And that’s okay. We went
to some dark places with this whole thing, saying we’ll never, ever get another
dog. But that’s just not true. We’re dog people and dog people have dogs. We’ve
had nine incredible years with BeagieSmallz. We couldn’t imagine never having
that kind of love in our lives. We will say goodbye. We will grieve. It will be
awful, but we’ll sign up to do it again and again because the pain is always,
always worth the price.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Today wraps up your first grade year. I had the notion to write another recap blog, about how smart and capable and kindhearted you are. How much you'll miss art class and the graduating 8th graders and how insanely proud of you I am. How proud we are.

But you know all that. You are all that.

Instead, I paraphrased part of an incredible Ted Talk I saw at work this week. Before the video played, I leaned forward and said to my Tribe, "I'm in a weird, emotional place this week so I'm sure this will do a little damage," because I knew by topic alone this spoken word, this poetry would hit me where I love to be hit- in my Mama heart.

If I Should Have a Daughter

by Sarah Kay

Instead of "Mom," she's going to call me
"Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what
happens, at least she can always find her way to me.

And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her
hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say,
"Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."

And she's going to learn that this life will hit you.
Hard. In the face. Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the
stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to
remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.

There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids
or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll
make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by
herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your
hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe
me, I've tried.

And, baby, I'll tell her, don't keep your
nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million
times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail
back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in
the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the
fire in the first place, to see if you can change him.

But I know she will anyway, so instead, I'll always
keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because
there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks
that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are
for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it.

I want her to look at the world through the underside
of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies
that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my
mom taught me. That there'll be days
like this. There'll be days like this, my mama said.

When you open your hands to catch and wind up with
only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to
fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on
your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to
your knees in disappointment.

And those are the very days you have all the more reason to
say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way
the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's
sent away.

You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will
put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines
erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this
funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am ... pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of
sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue
out and taste it. Baby, I'll tell her, "remember, your mama
is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with
small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more."

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad
things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't
you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And
when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under
your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and
defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

The Lil' Dude

A seven-year-old dynamo who never meets a stranger, nor cardboard box she doesn't love. Craves sleep, CheezIts, art, her people, making a difference, and singing her heart out. She's better than anything on any Starbucks menu.

That's What She Said

"I am enough. I am full of sparkle & compassion. I genuinely want to make the world a better place. I love hard. I practice kindness. I'm not afraid of the truth. I am loyal, adventurous, supportive, & surprising. I am a woman. I am enough. I make mistakes, but I own them & learn from them. Sometimes I make a lot of mistakes." -Molly Mahar